Exes and Ohs

by Beth Kendrick

  I leaned over and killed the music.

  We spent a long, silent minute listening to the hiss of the air conditioner and the rumble of the Mustang idling next to us.

  “I, uh, I’m thinking about calling Mike.”

  “What? Why?” I demanded, sounding just a tad more like General Schwarzkopf than I’d meant to.

  “Well, he’s been leaving all these messages on my voice mail, begging me to call him back.” She turned the radio back on.

  “Again, I must ask why you would consider doing such a thing.” I eased into my calmest therapist’s tone. “Perhaps the plate-smashing marathon of last month’s breakup has slipped your mind, but as the woman who had to sweep up the kitchen floor and go buy new dishes at Costco not three weeks ago, let me refresh your memory.”

  “Actually, I already called him.”

  “No. You. Didn’t.”

  “We’re getting together Friday night.” She jabbed her index finger toward me. “And I don’t want to hear it from you.”

  “What happened to not speaking the man’s name in our house? What happened to him being dead to you?”

  “We’re just getting together as friends,” she said, her face scarlet.

  “But why? You gave me specific instructions to tackle you to the ground and tie you up until you regained your sanity if I ever caught you trying to call him!”

  “Well, it looks like somebody didn’t do a very good job with the tackling, doesn’t it?”

  “Cesca…”

  She sighed. “He still has some stuff of mine, and I…need it back.”

  “Like what? The final ragged shreds of your dignity and good sense? You told me yourself—the man has a copy of every Warrant album ever made. And he treats you like shit. Why on earth would a smart woman like you go back for more?”

  This pushed her over the edge. She whipped around in her seat, nearly swerving into the Mustang. “You know, Gwen, you’re pretty opinionated for someone who’s still hanging on to her ex-wedding dress.”

  3

  Once we resumed speaking to each other after a grueling Pilates session with Polo, who, I had to admit, was unspeakably fine), Cesca managed to overcome her initial disapproval and devoted the rest of the week to helping me prep for my Friday night date with Alex.

  “Ooh, dinner and the Lakers! That’s like fifth date material.” The merciless teasing progressed to psychological torture on Thursday evening. “You better watch out, ’cause the next step is picking out engagement rings, moving to Colorado, and popping out triplets!”

  “I so regret ever telling you about that.” I frowned at the conservative taupe blazer and skirt I’d worn to work that day. “Now shut up and help me figure out what I’m going to wear.”

  She clasped her hands under her chin and struck a 1950s yearbook pose. “Are you two going someplace nice for dinner?”

  I stared at my low-heeled pumps. “La Guancia.”

  Her eyes doubled in size. “You don’t mean La Guancia on Melrose with the four-month wait for reservations and the snottiest maître d’ this side of Paris?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Wow! This guy must have beaucoup bucks!”

  I couldn’t help but think about the ostentatious watch. “I guess.”

  She tilted her head to one side and summed up what we now knew about my new prospect. “Rich and handsome…and he likes to flaunt it on first dates. Hmm. Perhaps he’s compensating for other, you know, shortcomings?”

  “Hey now, be fair. Our first date was technically the coffee shop. Right after he ambushed me on Le Conte Avenue in the middle of a temper tantrum.”

  “How romantic.” She grinned. “Well, I’ll just have to scope this guy out for myself and see if he’s good enough for your little rebound fling. When do I get to meet him?”

  I gritted my teeth and ignored the “rebound” gambit. “How about Friday night?”

  “No can do. I’m seeing Mike, remember?” She put her hands on her hips. “He is so funny. He said the most hilarious thing—”

  I knew it! “So you’re definitely getting back together with him? The man who believes cannabis is a food group?”

  She froze, her smile too wide. “Uh. No.”

  “Liar.”

  “I’m not!” She succumbed to a sudden coughing fit. “I told you—we’re just hanging out. As friends. Completely platonic.”

  “And you say I pile on the denial?”

  “You do. Laker girl.”

  I looked at her. “Five bucks says you get back together.”

  “Deal.” We shook on it.

  So now Cesca was off gallivanting with the last Warrant fan on the planet, and I was faced with a closet full of clothes, none of which were worthy of La Guancia.

  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine an appropriate ensemble for dinner at L.A.’s hottest new restaurant. And what came to mind was the clingy white dress Harmony had worn. Of course, you had to have a body like Harmony’s and a face like Harmony’s and charisma like Harmony’s to pull that off. Not to mention a bloated budget for deceptively simple, expertly cut designer clothes.

  I sighed and flopped down on my unmade twin bed (my old queen-size had been shipped off to Goodwill because, seriously, who wanted to sleep in a bed that had been slept in by someone who slept with Lisa?). The truth of the matter was that nothing in my wardrobe was going to be acceptable because I didn’t want to dress like myself tonight. I wanted to dress up like Harmony. I wanted to be Harmony.

  But time was a-wastin’. So I heaved a mighty sigh, yanked open the closet door, and came face-to-face yet again with the plastic-shrouded confection of silk, lace, and curdled dreams.

  “I have got to get rid of this thing,” I reminded myself, shoving the wedding dress out of the way and pawing past the muted Ann Taylor career separates.

  Might as well face facts. Any attempt to compete with Harmony in the hoochie department would be pathetic and futile. So I settled on fitted black pants, a white tank top, and a leather jacket. This outfit would actually be perfect for a basketball game, which, in Los Angeles, is the type of event to which everyone brings a Hermès bag and binoculars to spot courtside celebrities. You can get glasses of decent Pinot Noir at the concession stands.

  By the time Alex picked me up at six, I had applied powder, lipstick, and mascara, wiped it all off, reapplied it, and given myself a stern lecture. Why ruin the whole evening obsessing over his goddess-on-a-mountaintop ex? I might not be Carmen Electra, but I looked pretty damn good for an academic.

  The tricky part would be pretending I’d never met “H. St. James” or her troubled child. According to legal guidelines, it would be unethical for me to discuss any of my clients with anyone other than my supervisor. It made me feel weird—cagey, like I had some huge advantage over Alex because I’d gotten a glimpse into his romantic archives. And I couldn’t help but wonder: had Alex and Harmony dated before or after Leo was born, and if it was after, how had Alex adjusted to the role of surrogate father figure? Was Leo, in fact, responsible for sparking Alex’s obsession with stay-at-home moms and tobogganing?

  Thanks a lot, kid.

  Alex showed up, right on time, in a dark blue Audi sedan. The kind of car I could never drive because I would be constantly terrified of scratching it, denting it, or basically touching it in any way. You needed a sense of casual fatalism to drive a car like that. An ability to accept the impermanence of material objects. And also a job that paid a lot better than a clinical internship.

  While I was philosophizing about his choice of wheels, Alex, who had apparently memorized the complete works of Miss Manners, actually got out of the driver’s seat to open the car door for me. He looked dashing yet low-key in khakis and a black merino wool sweater.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi,” he replied, and before I had time to step back and take a thorough analytical reading of my reaction to seeing him again, he had wrapped his hand tightly around mine and ushered me into the pas
senger seat.

  Golden early-evening sunlight pooled in the soft tan leather interior. The seat felt warm against my back, and while he walked around to the driver’s seat, I curled the hand he’d held into my jacket pocket. The stereo was turned down, way down, but I could discern the faint strains of…the Beach Boys? In a clinic trustee’s car? Where was the requisite Waspy compilation of Gershwin and Holst? The fanatical devotion to talk radio?

  He slammed the door and buckled up. I smiled over at him and finally started to relax. “‘Good Vibrations’?”

  He grinned. “Best pop song ever made.”

  I shook my head as we pulled away from the curb. “Somehow, I didn’t picture you as the ‘Surfin’ U.S.A.’ type. Aren’t you a little young for the Beach Boys?”

  “Can’t help it. That’s what happens when you’re born in Malibu. I started surfing out at the Point when I was six.”

  “Six? As in six years old?”

  “Sure. I was constantly pestering the older kids in the neighborhood, nagging them to teach me. I had a single mom—my biological father was generous with money, but he didn’t want to be involved in my life. I ran her ragged, so eventually she gave in and bought me a board one summer just to get me out of her hair.” He shrugged. “Gotta love the Beach Boys.”

  “That’s your sad story of childhood woe and single motherhood? Growing up in Malibu, shredding waves with the Sheen brothers between margaritas?”

  He rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t quite like that.”

  I settled back into my seat as we turned onto Wilshire. “How was it?”

  “Well, actually, I went to boarding school in New Hampshire.”

  “So, instead of surfing with the Sheens, you were snowboarding with guys with names like Ephriam Pennington the Third?” But I could see how that would be a lonely childhood—no siblings and a party-girl parent who packed you off to boarding school the moment you could tie your own shoes.

  “Well…yeah.” He laughed. “God, I sound like such a snob.”

  “Yes, you do,” I said cheerfully. “Got any other tragic secrets to share? Was your ‘single mom’ actually in line to the throne of England?”

  “You know, I’m picking up on your sarcasm. Let’s get back to the topic at hand. What about you? Do you surf?”

  I laughed. “I grew up in the Chicago suburbs. Landlocked flatlands. We didn’t even have hills to sled on.”

  “Chicago.” He nodded. “That explains the accent.”

  “I don’t have an accent.”

  “Yes, you do. You sound…honest.”

  “What’s up with you Californians and my alleged accent?” I demanded. “My friends out here listen to my mom talk for two seconds, and immediately ask what country she’s from.”

  “What country is she from?”

  “Iowa.”

  “Well, there you go.” He tapped the steering wheel in time to “Surfing Safari.” “I can’t believe you’ve never been surfing. You’d love it. Clears your head. But you know, it’s one of the most difficult sports out there.”

  I rolled my eyes. “How hard can it be if Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze can do it?”

  “You a big Point Break fan? Wow, I’ve finally found my soul mate.”

  “Now who’s being sarcastic?”

  By the time we had arrived at the restaurant, we found ourselves in accord on several critical issues: the best donuts in L.A. (Bob’s), the best place to go for brunch when hungover (The Griddle Café), and the best thing about sleeping alone (me: don’t have to listen to anyone snoring, him: don’t have to listen to anyone’s complaints about the snoring).

  I really did like him. Rebound or no rebound, I wanted to know him better. And maybe occasionally kiss him. With tongue. And assorted other body parts. But all that didn’t matter just now, because we were having fun, something I hadn’t really done since the infamous nonwedding and all that preceded it.

  But once Alex surrendered his car keys to a stern-faced valet, fun time was over. The restaurant, with all its muted lighting and carefully crafted ambiance, did not lend itself to frivolous discussions about snoring. Rather, this was the sort of joint where one could only discuss Eastern mysticism or high-stakes contract negotiations whilst craning one’s neck to see if Steven Spielberg and Kate Capshaw had just arrived at the bar. Decor by International House of Chiffon, hostess by Mattel.

  He pulled out my chair at a cozy little table in the back.

  “Thank you,” I murmured, trying not to disturb the amorous couple locking lips at the next table.

  “You’re welcome.” We sat down and cleared our throats and glanced around in stilted silence until the willowy brunette waitress asked if we’d like to order an appetizer.

  The twosome next to us stopped canoodling and glared at us as we scanned a menu and ordered white asparagus tips.

  The waitress sashayed off. The canoodlers went back to business, pausing to seethe whenever Alex and I dared to speak above a whisper.

  Service was agonizingly slow. At eight o’clock, we were stranded with our empty appetizer plate and the rapidly fading hope of ever submitting a dinner order.

  “Damn.” He checked his watch and frowned. “We’re going to miss tip-off.”

  I took a sip of water, considered chewing the ice to vex the canoodlers. “That’s okay. I gotta tell you, I’m not the biggest basketball fan. I mean, it’s okay, but my roommate Cesca is a rabid Lakers fanatic.”

  “Well…do you want to forget the game and do something else?”

  The couple next door both turned their blond heads to scowl at the ear-splitting racket we were creating.

  “Not unless you do,” I whispered.

  He nodded emphatically. “I definitely do.”

  I folded up my napkin. “Then let’s forget this whole thing and go get some French fries.”

  His eyes lit up. “French fries. And red meat?”

  “Sure. And let’s throw in some cigarettes and booze while we’re at it.”

  Thus, we ended up at Jerry’s Famous Deli in Westwood, dipping fries in ketchup and reveling in our grease-laden bourgeois tackiness.

  “Thanks for dinner. This is great.” I bit into my grilled cheese sandwich. Heaven.

  He finished a bite of meat loaf. “I keep forgetting there’s a world outside corporate finance and overhyped bistros.”

  I shook my head. “You need to get out more. Or stay in more. There’s this thing called pizza delivery. God invented it just for people like you.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” He grinned, hanging his head. “I have a DVD player I’ve never even used. I bought it six months ago, and it’s still in the box.”

  “Too busy trading stock tips with old Ephriam Pennington the Third?”

  “The stock market is more interesting than you might think. Especially in this economy.”

  “Well, there you go—you could order a pizza, take your DVD player out of the box, and watch Wall Street.”

  “How obsessed with capitalism do you think I am? Please. Do you kick back and watch Analyze This in your spare time?” He paused for a bite of meat loaf. “I did buy the whole first season of Northern Exposure on DVD, though. Did you ever watch that show?”

  “I loved that show!” There was an energy in my voice that surprised me. I sounded almost happy.

  Laughter bubbled up inside me, and we were off to the races.

  “That episode where Maggie burns the house down!”

  “The one where Joel goes on strike in the tent!”

  “You don’t want your pickles?”

  “They’re all yours.” I shoved my plate toward him.

  “How could I forget that I bought Northern Exposure?” He shook his head. “We should go watch it right now.”

  “Okay.” I realized, even as I said it, that I was being snookered. But I did not care. I had gone three hours without once thinking about Lisa or Dennis or even Harmony, and that had to be worth something, right?

  We managed to polish o
ff the French fries sans cigarettes and booze, but I was feeling a little buzzed by the time we parked in front of Alex’s Santa Monica condo. Because I was seriously considering sleeping with this guy.

  This was not my usual style. I was very much a well-we’ve-been-together-for-three-months-shall-we-risk-it kind of gal.

  At least, I used to be. But things had changed. No more three-month preludes to heartbreak. I was going to have to revise the rules of engagement (so to speak) in my postapocalyptic romantic landscape. I didn’t want to waste the best years of my life mourning a man who didn’t love me enough. The time had come to rejoin the ranks of desiring and desirable humans.

  And I craved human contact. The simple solid warmth of another body pressed against mine. It had been so long since I’d had anything, a back rub, a somnolent embrace, anything. My emotional health had come down to this: get some action or get a cat. Given my dander allergies, the choice was clear.

  This time I’d be smarter—I wouldn’t load myself down with unrealistic expectations. None of this “…but I’m in love” crap. As long as we continued to skate on the surface, we’d be fine.

  En route to his condo, he held about fifteen doors for me. The car door. The front door to his building’s marble-coated lobby. The elevator door. And on and on.

  As we left the public domain and entered the private, conversation dried up. Because frankly, his lifestyle intimidated the hell out of me. He lived in the architectural equivalent of a Patek Philippe watch: the type of building where you could march up to the doorman and demand a fresh bottle of imported water for your purebred bichon frise.

  The spotless polish of the elevator mirror reflected a handsome, happy-looking couple. We could have posed for the Spiegel catalog, him tall, solid, and chiseled in merino and khakis, me small and streamlined in textured white and black. A perfect match made in marketing. Except for our eyes: his looked cautious, mine looked distant.

  We just stood there, listening to the muffled dings ticking off the passing floors as the silence thickened between us.